


I feel so good if I just say the word

by goodloser



Series: Quit Stuntin [4]
Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: First Dates, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Oral Sex, Picnics, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Rollerblades & Rollerskates, Rough Sex, Self-Esteem Issues, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:08:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27739702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodloser/pseuds/goodloser
Summary: Dead End and Motormaster go on their first date. It ends up kind of a mess, but oh well. Then they meet with the other Stunticons for a picnic and some unfinished business.
Relationships: Breakdown/Wildrider/Drag Strip, Dead End/Motormaster (Transformers)
Series: Quit Stuntin [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1924132
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	I feel so good if I just say the word

So Dead End and Motormaster were going on a date today.

They were sat in the corner of their headquarters, quietly discussing plans with level coolness (and one a little more cool than the other). Dead End had, in rather un-Dead End-like fashion, left the planning up to Motormaster so it’d be more of a surprise, Motormaster was hoping. (Really, Dead End probably just couldn’t be bothered and cared too little to try). In Breakdown’s room, Drag Strip had joined him to see out the puzzle he’d been able to requisition the parts for. He’d been trying to craft a maze game; one with a little bearing ball in it so if tilted it would roll through the maze and the goal was to get to the end. Drag Strip insisted on trying it out first, even though there was muffled banging coming from across the wall now. He was probably complaining about it. Who had any clue where Wildrider was; making himself scarce, apparently. Maybe he’d found a local town to terrorise.

“So,” and Motormaster chewed briefly at his lip, “Whatcha wanna do, anyhow?”

“I am quite open to suggestions.” Dead End reclined on the spare chair he’d pulled up.

“We can just do something you like? Like you can talk about your books or whatever.”

He tipped his head. “I  _ do _ talk a lot though, do I not?” He likely wasn’t feeling up to such an energy-wasteful task. “What do you like to do in your spare time?”

“I just study or watch gladiator scrap or train,” Motormaster mumbled, suddenly feeling like he was a very boring person. (Not just hard to be among the likes of the Stunticons, but among the other Decepticons. In fact, his hobbies sounded awfully close to  _ Onslaught, _ which was a horrifying thought in itself. Maybe he should pick up rollerskating or something).

(Where could he go rollerskating? Oh, one of those human “gyms” with the big, smooth circuits they around on two wheels on. Yeah, that could be fun).

He blurted out, “Let’s go rollerskatin’,” without really thinking about it.

Dead End mutedly stared at him. Then he pointedly looked down at his own feet. While Motormaster had a neat set of not one, not two, but  _ three _ pairs of wheels on both of his feet, Dead End has his upon on his shoulders and the inside of his legs (ankles — not touching the floor). 

“We’ll sort it out,” Motormaster said quickly. “Let’s talk to Breakdown or somethin’.”

They heard more yelling and laughing as soon as they approached his room. Drag Strip yelled, “See! Oh man.”

“It’s not my — stop dropping them everywhere —”

“That last one was an accident.”

They looked in to see Breakdown swiping his face, sitting at a metal square set on his desk, tools scattered around them. He then threw his hands up a little. “If I trip on something when it gets dark in here I swear to the Allspark. Look, put that down.”

“Breakdown?” Motormaster called. He was, at least, satisfied to catch Breakdown’s controlled flinch.

Breakdown swivelled around quickly in his office chair. He stared at the ground. “Yes, Boss?”

“Can you fix up Dead End some rollerskates or somethin’? Just wheels, I guess.”

Drag Strip pffted and folded his arms. He didn’t have a chair, instead sat at Breakdown’s flank. “What kinda dumb plans are you cooking up now?”

“Watch it,” Motormaster grumbled and pointed a large finger at him. “Nothin’. We’re just going on a, a —”

“A date?”

“No! Er, a,” Motormaster glanced at Dead End, who simply looked at him tamely. “An outin’. Fine?”

“Laaame. You better leave now. Rider’ll wanna go and he’ll probs blow up the place with a pipe bomb or something.”

“Sure thing,” he shrugged.

“Hold on, here,” Dead End said quietly, but like all of Dead End’s dialogue it tended to get everyone to settle down a little so they could hear. (Another thing Motormaster liked about him). “What are you two planning later? Wildrider?”

Breakdown just muttered something about hitting the racks, and then a further thing about not looking at him too closely. “No clue,” Drag Strip said. “We got nothing to do until the Constructicons Screamer-proof their plan?”

“Why don’t we have a double date?”

That was an absurd thing to come out of his voicebox in its own right.

Motormaster coughed into his fist and said, “Double outing.”

Drag Strip sighed. “How are you  _ so _ uncool. You’re the same age as me, but it’s like you’re the soul of a stuffy old bot reincarnated into my bondmate. What’s next, ballroom dancing? Putting on a silent movie?”

“A silent movie would be good,” Dead End agreed.

“Umm, this might be a stupid question, but, with who?” Breakdown fidgeted with his fidget cube; turning it around in his hands and worrying at the edges. “Drag Strip and I don’t have dates. Wildrider might do, but I kinda doubt it since he leaked off Skywarp last month.”

“Must I point out everything to you? You can go with each other. And Rider. As a trio.”

“Wh-what —” and his vents spun up “— I don’t, I wouldn’t, I —”

Drag Strip wrapped his arm around Breakdown’s shoulder to pull him into a side hug with a grin slung over his faceplates. “What, you think Breakdown could land a catch like me? Ha!”

“I could! Maybe. I mean, I don’t want to, there isn’t anyone I really trust, and I know whoever asks me out is only gonna do it as a joke and everyone will laugh at me, and even if they  _ do _ say yes or something everything will go wrong and I’ll end up looking like a tool anyway —”

“For a guy who hates attention, you really can talk a mile a minute, yanno?” He affectionately (and irritatingly) pinched Breakdown’s cheek. “Wildrider will be on. I dunno if that’s a good thing, though. He might get too drunk and go on another havoc.”

Ah yes. They did not need another Spaghetti Incident. “I’ll keep an optic on him,” Dead End offered as helpfully-sounding as he could muster out of him.

Breakdown glanced at Drag Strip to his right, and then set about looking for some steelpaper to draw up plans for. “Well, I suppose it could be fun. But at a nice place, okay? Not anywhere people can see us. Drag Strip, please leave, you’ll annoy me. Dead End, please stay. Motormaster, uh…”

He glanced up to see Motormaster nodding squarely at him.

He then spent the next hour and a half measuring Dead End’s specs, and building a sort of shoe out of mild steel and padding with rather crudely hand-CNCed wheels out of an even softer metal. He was muttering to himself as he worked: “Not rubber, but I think humans use plastic anyway… where did I put that spruedriver?”

“Screwdriver,” Dead End said. He was sat on Breakdown’s berth and kicking his legs slowly as he gazed around the room. Like Breakdown himself, it was chaotic, though there was a sense of… organised chaos to it? Like his tool shelf was clearly disorganised, but at least everything was on the same shelf rather than thrown around the room like he was  _ certain _ Wildrider and Drag Strip would’ve done if they ever worked on anything.

(They didn’t. They were warriors and racers first and foremost. Wildrider would inevitably manage to pull the dials off a wrench, and Drag Strip would get impatient and give up in about four clicks).

Soon he was finished, though, and Dead End was fitting them on. The scene might’ve been romantic if they had anything but platonic feelings for each other; Breakdown was fighting the “shoes” on like a glass slipper from that one cartoon movie. Dead End tried them immediately. He failed to stabilise himself, wobbled, and fell onto Breakdown’s shoulder.

“Hm. I don’t understand how Motormaster does this all the time.”

“He probably balances on his… his…” Breakdown frowned. Barbing words didn’t come second-nature to him. “Well, he’s really top-heavy.”

“That’d make it hurt more when you fall over, no?” Although Dead End was now already imagining falling maybe-not-quite-on-accident and having to be held up by Motormaster in an absurd meet-cute like the romantic-comedies he sometimes found Breakdown watching.

“Yeah. I’m glad I’m not going… I’d definitely fall over immediately, look really stupid, and then everyone at the roller ring would see it and I could never go back there again and they’ll whisper about me behind my back!”

“Rink,” Dead End corrected, although he’d waited so long that Breakdown had forgotten what he was even correcting. He reached down to take the “shoes” off and subbed them.

The journey to the “gymnasium” wasn’t easy, but mostly because Motormaster realised he didn’t actually know where he could find one, so he just headed for the nearest large city. There he stormed into the first gym he could find and was taken aback to find it was filled with smelly, half-naked humans who were cowering beneath him. Well, he liked that, but it wasn’t what he came for.

“Where’s the track?”

A woman with her hair tied up tried not to seem too terrified at the command, “Ex, excuse me? Please don’t hurt…”

“I ain’t gonna if you just tell me what I wanna hear. Where’s the big track, the one that goes in a circle. We wanna go skatin’.”

She gaped at him. Dead End touched Motormaster’s side. “I believe they are called ‘velodromes’. Where is the nearest velodrome, sir?” 

She didn’t bother to correct him. “I think, uh, it’s C… California.”

“Mmh.” Motormaster began heading back out where they came. “The Autobots are gonna be on us. We better move fast.”

“Of course.”

Sometimes Motormaster stole glances at him though they made little conversation as they walked back to the main roads (they could drive, but there were a load of traffic lights in inner cities, and while  _ he _ couldn’t give a microscrap about them it was annoying getting stuck past a horde of humans in nonsentient cars). But he did wish Dead End talked more, just to hear his voice smooth like, like… man, he was really no good at this words thing. It was smooth like that “butter” Wildrider had brought back to base, proudly shown off like it was a rare treasure (it probably wasn’t), eaten in front of them, and then spent the new few days in the medbay for overlubricated internals.

“Tell me a story.”

“Hm? Oh? About what?”

“Anythin’. Don’t care.”

Dead End hummed again as he transformed on the entrance to the interstate and cast about in that processor of his. “Ah, do you know the true story of Cinderella?”

“That dumb movie Drag Strip was watchin’?” Motormaster scoffed. “That stuff’s for little bitlets, y’know.”

“We  _ are _ bitlets, you know, or just about. Anyway, it wasn’t the true story to tell. They have censored it for human tastes. It’s the tale of a young girl who lives with her evil stepmother —”

“A what?”

“It is when your father marries a different woman and she is not your genetic data carrier. The stepmother is abusive to her stepdaughter: she hits her and forces her to do all the work around the house while her stepsisters get to lounge in fancy dresses, her in squalor. And one day she encounters a fairy godmother —”

“Dead End, I really dunno what any of this nonsense is.” Motormaster’s engine revved impatiently as he said that.

“Very well. Just think of it as a human mythical creature. She grants a wish to Cinderella that she is able to go to the ball, and transforms her a beautiful death and a vehicle made of a pumpkin,” (Motormaster snorted at this ridiculous mental image) “but of course there is a catch. All of this magic will disappear at midnight, so she can only be there so long. She meets a beautiful prince, but of course is terrified he will dislike her poor, true state. She runs out, and leaves a shoe. The prince is desperate to find her, so he announces that whoever fits the shoe must be the woman she met. Many humans try the shoe on, and are unsuccessful, as Cinderella has dainty feet or so. These include the stepsisters. Cinderella meets her prince, and they get married, and have a happily ever after.”

“Okay…” and if Motormaster was in root, he’d be furrowing his brow. “I on’t really get it. But okay.”

“Not the true story, of course. In the original version, Cinderella prays under her mother’s grave every day. When the stepsisters find that their feet are too big for the shoe, one of them cuts her appendages off to fit into it. Later, they attend the wedding to curry favour, and their eyes are plucked out by birds.”

“Heh.” Motormaster chuckled; a low sound deep in his voicebox. “I like that one better.”

“Yes, me too. It earnestly speaks to the futility of hoping at all. After all that effort, Cinderella was granted nothing fixed and permanent. She will die regardless of whether or not she meets her prince. It honestly would’ve been better to not bother at all. … Although, I wouldn’t mind being the stepsisters sitting around all day.”

“You do that already.” Motormaster reached out with his EM field and nudged Dead End’s. “In pretty dresses, too.”

“Hmm. I’m not sure if I would enjoy that too much.”

He continued to tease. “Come on. Like… a black one’d look good on you. Or somethin’. I don’t really know much about human clothes.”

Dead End just hummed further.

“And what’d that make me, the handsome prince?” He nudged at Dead End again, this time a playful, light slap on his door.

“Honestly, I’m sure the others will agree you’re more like the stepmother.”

“What! That ain’t true — and hey, that’d still make you no better!”

Dead End laughed softly and this time he poked Motormaster back: a short jab under his axles that’d only Wildrider’d be brave enough to repeat.

“Quit it. You’re such a pain.”

“A~h,” he sang tonelessly. “It seems this date isn’t going very well.”

“Outing. It ain’t a date.”

“You’re an odd fellow, Motormaster. You can be very immature sometimes, you know.”

Motormaster spluttered, “What?! How?”

“No one else gets so flustered over the thought of dating. You’re quite… innocent, I would say?”

He muttered to himself about not being innocent and he’ll junkyard anyone who says otherwise and him? Him? He once pulled a spinning spark out of someone’s chest and him? Innocent?

They pulled off into the San Francisco urban area and transformed back to root to handle it. Motormaster was satisfied when the velodrome came into site and its roof was much higher than the gym’d been; he wouldn’t have to scoot this time. Doing stuff like that was bad for his struts. He tore the door off its hinges with ease.

Dead End nodded pleasantly when he’d stepped inside and saw how open the space was. “This is a good find.” Although he wasn’t sure how much the wooden-looking floor was going to hold up under their weights. He desubbed his shoes and put them on. “Help me up.”

Motormaster stared at him with faint surprise. “What, you can’t do it yourself now?”

“I am rather new to this whole rollerskating thing. I will probably fall over again.”

He rolled his eyes and lifted him up, even though feeling Dead End clutch so tightly onto his arm (desperate) was… nice. “Aight, let’s go. Oh. Usually they play music at these things so they can dance or somethin’.”

“Precisely why do you know so much about rollerskating?”

“They look like my feet, okay? I got curious and I wanted to know why humans had wheels on their feet when they can’t even transform.” He pouted; defensive.

“Hm. Sing a song then?”

“Are you — no way!”

“For me?”

“No thing unless it’ll help me fall Optimus Prime or somethin’.”

“How sad. Perhaps I will then.” Dead End peeked around the room for inspiration, and then began humming (and singing)  _ You Give Love a Bad Name, _ a hit that’d played out over their radio on long drives.

It was. Odd. To hear him singing, especially such an upbeat song. It made Motormaster feel something, but he wasn’t sure what that emotion really was, so he just set it aside for now. He pushed off from the side, tugging Dead End along with him. Moving around like this was an equally odd feeling; of course, he’d never known any other way to walk, but now he had to force himself not to simply step normally across the floor as his wheels worked underneath him. Dead End didn’t seem to be content with the whole affair, rather his grip on Motormaster’s arm tightening as he tried to stay close and not fall over.

“I like that song, it is v— ugh, very depressing. I do — hm — do not really see the point of this.”

“It’s meant to be fun. You ain’t havin’ fun?”

“Not quite. Maybe we should’ve brought the others along after all.” His legs skittered across the floor for a moment, and it would’ve looked comical coming from such a poised and elegant young bot, but Motormaster grimaced with genuine worry for him — and now he also felt like an afthole for picking something not very fun at all.

“It isn’t your fault,” Dead End started; he probably noticed the dip in his field’s signature. “I simply prefer to be on stable ground, I believe.”

“What about this?” Motormaster scooped him into a carry and he squeaked a sound so distracting it actually stopped Motormaster from not heating up at how close their faces now well. “Hey. Make that sound again.”

“I will not, thank you.”

Though Dead End was palming the edge of his voicebox as if prepared to turn it off.

“Let’s go.” Motormaster zipped over straight to the other side of the velodrome in a single lap, and although Dead End couldn’t quite understand how he did it, he had to admit he was impressed with the  _ grace _ of Motormaster’s movements; the kind of skill that couldn’t be acquired in a year of practice, much less a day. He hooked his arms around Motormaster’s cowling and nuzzled at his chest. “Y’know,” Motormaster started up again, “they have these things called ‘roller derbies’. They’re like fights on skates or whatever. Except humans are slag-eatin’ wimps, so they don’t kill nobody in them, but I bet that’d be real fun if we set it up with the Stunticons and go fight the Aerialbots or something.”

Dead End commented, “You certainly have the advantage over them. Ah, but they have flight capability. We must fight some of their grounders, then.”

“Those dumb Lambos. And that other one, the one that’s kinda crazed up like Breakdown about the same things. Then that little red one ‘cuz he really rinses my windows and I wanna step on him.”

“I have no particular grudge against any of them,” he shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter in the end.”

“Really? Not even happy-go-lucky Bumble-for-brains?”

“Bumblebee can keep his optimism. I will be right when all is said and done.”

“You’re a funny one too, y’know. I ain’t never met no one who’s cared as little as things about you do.”

“You have not met that many people at all.”

“I’ve met the whole base! … You’re the opposite of Nacelle, actually. He tries too hard and you try too little.”

Dead End actually let a smirk creep into his voice then. “Not that it matters, or that it’s even a competition, but I’d say I have him beat in every category. Yes, even history.”

“Poor guy,” although Motormaster sounded awfully insincere about that. He’d slowed down during the conversation, but he did a few more laps anyway with Dead End cuddled to his breast. He was enjoying the warm, weighty object in his arms. In natural Dead End fashion, he wasn’t squirming around like the others would be doing. Rather, he was peacefully curled up and thrumming like a stack of hot beams. Motormaster then set him down so he could sit (rather awkwardly) and watch Motormaster who proclaimed he wanted to see how fast he could go.

Motormaster revved his engines and pulled into a runner’s squat. Then he was off. It was like he was sprinting so fast it was enough to make it across a surface of water. Dead End smiled to himself as he considered how ferocious it’d be seeing this black shape coming straight for you at a speed like this.

Or it was, but then Motormaster failed to turn the bend fast enough.

He dropped into a flat skid, but still couldn’t stick it and his knees seemed to crumple under the force. He cursed.

Dead End didn’t even flinch. “Are you alright?” He said, placid.

“I dented my kneecaps,” Motormaster muttered as he looked over the damage. He picked at some of the fresh, flat dents in his legs. One of them had burst and now there was a sliver of wiring poking out. “Slag, I musta been goin’ fast for that to happen.”

“Good job. Wildrider would be proud.”

“Wildrider’d do it on purpose, and he’s faster than me, too. Wanna get out of here?”

* * *

They’d driven back to the sun beginning to set. They’d stopped at the Nevadan desert, and were now laid against a large cliff-face to watch.

“I never would’ve pegged you as the romantic type,” Dead End said as soon as he got himself settled in Motormaster’s lap. Motormaster squished his internal chest space into subspace so he could press it back and rest his head on Dead End’s again. His hands were gently rubbing at shoulder tires.

“I ain’t. I thought you woulda liked it. You like pretty things, don’tcha?”

“I like making  _ myself _ pretty, but I can’t say I care much for other things. It would be more interesting to see the sun collapsing instead.”

“‘Cuz of that nihilistic attitude of yours?”

“Naturally. It would be nice to see something reach the end of its life that actually mattered. Killing humans is not that fascinating to me.”

“You’re such a bad boy.” Motormaster poked around his mask, at the edge where it met the metal that framed his face.

“Am I? Are you the worse boy, then?”

“I ain’t even hardly a boy. I think Drag Strip’s the only one who cares about that stuff, right?”

“I don’t see the point myself.”

The intricacies of human “genders” were certainly lost on the both of them. Blitzwing had tried to explain it to them, declaring himself “tankgender” and “jetgender”, but that seemed pointless when he was just those things anyway, and also totally made up.

“Humans are so weird,” he said simply.

Dead End nodded. “I do not understand why they attempt to go on rather than forming some kind of worldwide death pact. I believe it’s because their culture is money-driven rather than intellectual; there is no incentive to think for oneself, so no one tries to come to the natural conclusions of existence.”

Motormaster gently punched his shoulder. “Lighten up, little boy.”

“Little boy? We are the same age.”

“Yeah, but you’s just a little guy, see?”

“I am roughly a seeker’s height. I believe you are just too large. For me, at least.”

“Ha?” A smirk crept into his voice, and onto his voice. “Whassat meant to mean?”

“You know. Personality. Physical size…”

“You sure you can’t take me?” His hands travelled a little lower, from their careful massage to dip down into feeling around Dead End’s chest seams. Dead End gave no response.

“To be honest, I don’t know yet.”

Motormaster grunted in quiet response. His fingers grazed Dead End’s waist coupling kibble — and then they grabbed it roughly. Dead End jerked. Feeling naughty, Motormaster didn’t stop just there: that hand stroked its vaguely phallic exterior up and down while the other wormed into to feel around the negative space there. It found wires and pinched one. 

“Motormaster —”

“Come on. I always wanted to do this for you, yanno.”

“Pl…” But before Dead End could finish that sentiment, Motormaster had left his kibble and drew a perfect straight line down to his crotch. His touch left him momentarily. Dead End couldn’t help but groan barely-perceptibly at the loss. They returned with a squeeze to his tires to manipulate him down, and he complied, getting onto all fours; held up with one elbow and legs splayed out embarrassingly behind him. There was a soft click. Something delightfully hard, hot, and somewhat wet rubbed in between his thighs at his panel.

Dead End squeezed them close around it and opened his own panel.

The shaft began to move. It brushed against, through his lips, nudging at his nub. He shivered.

Motormaster whispered into his audial, “Still think I’m too big? Or y’feel like taking your chances now?”

Dead End nodded, but Motormaster didn’t finish his assault. He continued a maddeningly slow assault. Dead End’s valve cycled down on nothing.

“Always wanna. Since that — Nebraska, there. Look so pretty with snow on your coat. But yanno, when I see that, can’t help but think how I wanna just push you over and rub my paint all over you ‘til you look like a real mess and —”

There was a hawk squeal loud enough ahead that it startled Dead End and he looked over his shoulder. “Motormaster — stop.”

Motormaster paused.

“Not. Here. Somewhere more private. Please?”

He grimaced and nodded; disappointed, but understanding and wanting to be reassuring as well. He retracted his spike, and Dead End panelled up too. “Then, let’s get back to base, aight? And maybe we can…”

The drive back through the desert was spent with them far less than a car width apart.

* * *

“I’m telling y’all, it’s gonna work.”

“Wildrider, there is quite liberally no scientific evidence that —”

“Science, schmience. Right, Stripper? High five!”

“High five  _ what, _ because I  _ ain’t _ touching your —”

The door to the headquarters opened. Motormaster and Dead End stared Wildrider in the face. Or rather, they stared at what was currently eye-level with them, which was Wildrider’s spike hanging free and upside-down in the breeze as he handstand facing the door. Behind him, Drag Strip put his hands on his hips and whistled, “I toldja that was gonna happen.”

Breakdown ignored them. Apparently, he was glad for a reprieve from this raid to his senses. He pushed Wildrider over, to the side. “You — did anything happen? You were gone for a while, and I started getting worried, didn’t you say you were going rollerscraping? Or something? Where did you even go? Did you find Autobots? Are you hurt? Were there any humans? Or something worse, like…”

“Nothing happened, Breakdown.” And Motormaster pushed past them (although he fixed Wildrider with a quirked eyebrow) and disappeared into his room.

Dead End didn’t step into the room. Rather, he said, “Pray tell, Rider, what are you doing?”

Wildrider hadn’t moved from his new spot on the floor other than manually stuffing his spike back into its slot. “Ain’t you heard, End? If you stand upside-down for a few days it gets you bigger.”

“Hmm. Yours is already quite big, though.”

“Ain’t it be cool if it got as long as my arm or something?”

“That would be impractical. Though perhaps cool.”

As usual, Breakdown was in awe at the way Dead End could deflect and even act as good as a funny man as the best of them. “So what did you…”

“We went rollerskating, yes. Motormaster crashed into a wall.”

“Ha! Should’ve bet on that. What a maroon.”

“Then we watched the sunset.”

He looked taken aback. “Oh. That’s… kind of, normal? I think…? And that was it? Nothing weird? No one watching you?”

“I know my finish makes me appear otherwise, but I can assure you I am not that interesting to watch,” Dead End deadpanned. “Are you all ready for our date?”

Wildrider scrambled up. “I’m ready!” He side-hugged Drag Strip. “Are you ready for the time of your life ‘cuz it turns out I’m racist?”

“T-to who?!”

“I really hate cactuses. I don’t trust them or nothin’.”

“I agree. They’re quite the prickly customer.”

Everyone stared at Dead End. Cybercrickets filled the air.

He coughed. “Sorry. I suppose that wasn’t too sharp.”

“Can we desert this topic already?” Drag Strip said, trying extremely hard to keep a straight face.

Breakdown was failing his own straight face. “Yeah, everyone. Get to the point already.”

“What are you bozos talking about? You sound like a bunch of pricks,” Motormaster grunted once he’d returned from his room. Drag Strip immediately cheered and called out  _ ayyyy _ while flashing a couple of finger guns. “Nevermind. Let’s get goin’.”

“I believe I know just the spot,” Dead End nodded.

That’s how the five of them found themselves spread out on a blanket (a couple of quilts stitched together) on the airfield. The blanket was scattered with a number of cubes and goodies that Motormaster had the generosity to part with from his secret stash. Dead End was leant against his arm. Drag Strip admitted it might’ve been cute if they weren’t some of the most boring, worst people he knew. He himself was sat behind Breakdown with him in his lap while Wildrider was laid down behind them, head in hands, legs kicking in lackadaisy.

“Yanno, I ain’t real never been on no date no ‘fore,” he was saying.

Breakdown looked at him. “That’s kinda sad, I think.”

“Hm? It just means you get to the fun stuff faster. Wham, bam, thanks Trans-Am.”

“Who do you know who’s a Trans-Am?”

“The Autobots got a couple of ‘em, but I wouldn’t say no, you get what I mean?”

He mulled over it. “I w… I’d like something not that flashy. Something plain. I don’t want people looking at me and judging me.”

Drag Strip lightly punched his shoulder. “They’ll be judging you no matter what, dude.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want them to stare and start spreading some rumours about how I’m vain or only into him for his looks… Or getting really jealous and doing something to saboteur me. Argh, but I’ll really stand out next to him. This is terrible.”

“Come on.” Drag Strip pinched his wheel and he yelped. “No love in your heart for a Tyrell?”

“I don’t know, Drag Strip…”

“I can’t say you look bad neither, Breaky. You too, Rider, when you’re not all junked up at least. Now Dead End, see, I don’t like that look of his. He’s too round and curvy. And then he transforms out and he’s boxy as an energon cube, what’s up with that?”

“I am not boxy,” Dead End ran his fingers down his utter lack of a waist. “Am I boxy? Should I slim down?”

Motormaster rubbed his arm. He threw Drag Strip a dirty look. “You’re fine.”

“Sheesh, you’re touchy. I thought you didn’t care about nothing? I really just work you up?”

“It’s egregious to comment on others’ looks, Strip. Besides, you are hardly one to talk.” Dead End gestured over him. “An open engine like this, and right in the middle of your chassis no less. It’s practically downright exhibitionist.”

“Mh? How come?”

“No one wants to see you walking around with your parts out for all to see. You’re like a human female in a bikini.  _ Exactly _ like one, in fact.”

Drag Strip frowned and looked down to check out his pipes. “But I need all that airflow, y’see?”

“I think you both look nice,” Breakdown mumbled, but Drag Strip continued.

“‘Sides, you’re hardly one to talk to no one about downright exhibitionism. You don’t think see you scurrying off to get quickies with Rider? If you ain’t put out for Motors yet I’ll eat an axle.”

Motormaster scowled further and put down the rust stick he was holding. “Is he bothering you?”

“I am fine,” Dead End merely waved him off. He spread his legs lasciviously, but managed to pull off looking casual enough to just be stretching if they were talking about anything else. “Strip, I hardly hear your complaining when you’re on the giving end of things. Perhaps I ought to mete out some punishment.”

Now it was Drag Strip’s turn to scowl. Breakdown’s bottom lip wavered as he visualised exactly what Dead End had planned. Wildrider scooted his head into Breakdown’s lap and said, “Want me to take care of it Endy? I’ll find some weird fish and stuff it down his inlet.”

“Ugh, I don’t want that! You are so gross. If you try that on me I’m gonna blast you.”

Dead End just shrugged. He didn’t really care and was mostly just teasing.

Wildrider popped another sweet into his mouth. He was crumbs all over his face, so Breakdown leant down and wiped it down with a handkerchief that was definitely a human shirt at some point. Wildrider glanced up at him and his mouth split into a grin. “Oh? You fixin’ for a smoochin’?”

“No? You’re probably really gross and icky now.”

“Aw nuts.”

“This is getting kinda boring anyway,” Drag Strip moaned as he needled out another rust stick into the small space between his mouth and Breakdown’s tall back. “We should think of something else to do.”

“We could play a board game?”

Dead End pointed out, “We do not have any in our size.”

“Okay, let’s make one.”

“Sounds boring,” Wildrider grunted. “Can we drink?”

“This is like. So much effort. And also the kind of thing total squares’ll do. Let’s just play scraps.”

“We don’t have any dice.”

“Then let’s go find some, afthole!”

Motormaster was fast tuning out of the conversation, in no particular mood to listen to them squabble now. His hand traced slow, soothing circles along Dead End’s arm and he glanced at him with quiet curiosity. 

“What are you doing?”

“Just… gettin’ touchy-feely.”

Oh no, Drag Strip was  _ not _ going to be outdone like that. He put his hands to the front of Breakdown’s chest, around where the kibble was joined to his chestplate. Breakdown squawked in his best approximation of a bird. “Two people can play at that game, Motors, but if you start making out I’m leaving.”

Wildrider tried to shift his head, one antenna of which was slotted uncomfortable in between Breakdown’s thighs. Of course, this prevented him from jostling too much. “Can you kiss under there, Endy?”

Dead End touched the front of his mouthplate. “Yes. Have I not kissed you before?”

“Um, I don’t really remember. Maybe I bonked my head too many times in that last fight.”

Dead End hummed and cosied up further into Motormaster’s side as he desubbed a straw. Breakdown watched him, and then commented that it must be weird not having a face. Dead End put down the cube he was lifting to his mouth and moved over, on his knees, so he could hold out a hand. While he was over, Wildrider grabbed at his knees (seemingly for no reason other than to be annoying).

“Give me your hand.”

Breakdown blinked at him in puzzlement and did so. Dead End separated a finger out and put it in his inlet.

A short moment later, Breakdown yelled, flailed, and slapped Wildrider in the face. “He bit me?!”

“There. Now don’t make strange comments about my functioning.”

“He has a point though,” and Drag Strip briefly felt around his own chin to check it was still there. “It means you can’t do this.”

He stuck his tongue out.

Dead End rolled his eyeballs, which was to say he really just tilted them imperceptibly beneath his mask. “You’re the one who doesn’t have any optics.”

“So? I don’t want any dumb optics anyway. See this?” Drag Strip tapped the edges of his visor. “360-degree vision. Or 180. Whatever.”

“I sincerely doubt your periphery is as good as mine. And your face guards look very obstructive.”

Drag Strip frowned and touched his guards. Wildrider piped up, “Y’all, I bet I would look so wetter than a whistle if I had a visor and mask and everythin’.” Drag Strip frowned as he envisioned it.

“Pass. But let’s pop one on the Boss here and maybe he’ll stop talking once in a while.”

“Drag Strip,” Motormaster sighed, “I run my mouth the Primus damned least of any of one of you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Drag Strip chewed on another sweet. 

“Can you not have this argument while I’m… right here?” Breakdown waved his hands. “Motormaster, stop looking at me, please? It’s freaking me out.”

Motormaster just shrugged and returned to glaring at the baked good he was currently trying to break off into smaller pieces as Dead End returned to his side. Drag Strip brought his hands down and with their smaller size, was able to worm them in to pluck at hip seams while Breakdown squirmed.

“Drag Strip, stop that, it’s tickerling.”

“Tickling.”

“Sorry, Breaky.” Drag Strip planted an exaggerated kiss to the back of his head. “You’re just too fun to tease.” Breakdown put his face in his hands in mortification. Wildrider started fiddling around with his crotchpiece.

“Wild— what are you doing, we’re in public, someone’s gonna see us and we’ll get in trouble and bad rumours will spread about me and I don’t wanna get hurt.”

“Huh? Oh, I thought we were doing stuff now.”

Motormaster growled. “We are not. You ain’t doin’ that. Right in front of my spiralbun?”

Wildrider turned over and tried to flash the best puppy-dog eyes he could. “Come on. Pleeease?”

“Wildrider, I swear on my cylinders if you think I’m gonna be spendin’  _ my _ free time cleaning up  _ your _ fluids you are more out of your mind than usual.”

He pouted, looking the perfect picture of a petulant child.

* * *

Breakdown, Wildrider and Drag Strip retreated to Breakdown’s room to do Primus-knew-what. Maybe they were fiddling with their new toy, maybe they were doing the same thing Dead End and Motormaster were about to do. Dead End was seated on the bed in Motormaster’s room, where he himself was on the other side frowning at the world. He was making that funny face he so often made; an asymmetrical half-quirked mouth with eyebrow ridges furrowed equally haphazardly. (Of course, Dead End found it adorable).

“What is the matter?”

“Damn paintin’s wonky. I oughta get Breakdown to look at it.”

“There isn’t much merit in that. It’ll probably go back to its usual self.” It was a painting of Megatron done in the crude, harsh strokes of Kaonian Precisionism. It was probably worth the other Stunticons’ combined assets. “How gauche.”

“Whassat mean?”

“Mm. It’s nothing I care to tell you.”

“Whatever. Let’s get this show on the road.” He turned back to Dead End. “How you wanna do this?”

“How do  _ you _ want to do this?” and then, “Have you even interfaced before?”

Motormaster’s fans kicked up two levels. “‘Course I have! I don’t — I ain’t —”

“So you have interfaced, but not dated before. How droll.” Dead End laid down at the head of his legs. He shifted until he was comfortable, including shifting parts of his body into subspace. Motormaster gulped when he found himself on top of him, hands on either side of his head. Dead End made no particular movements.

“Oh,” Motormaster said dumbly. “Are you gonna fit…?”

“I will be fine.” Dead End spread his legs, hooking them across Motormaster’s hips. It brought their crotchplating together and Motormaster failed to repress a shiver. Dead End tilted his head then in apparent smugness and retracted his panel. 

Again, rather dumbly, Motormaster said “Ah, I wanna see,” and ducked down. He could almost feel his mouth watering at the sight of Dead End’s plush valve, where the black lips revealed a white inner panelling. “Slag, Dead End.”

Motormaster put his hands under Dead End’s aft so he could vault him up and lift him. He nosed at his lips, drinking in the scent of it. (He always had a bit of a thing for scents, even going as far as to jack off to one of Dead End’s polish rags. Was that weird? No, it was probably fine. Definitely). He dragged his thick, heavy tongue through that sweet mercury and couldn’t help but groan involuntarily. There was a mild grip on one of his horns that tensed with every lap.

Motormaster’s tongue was so wide he could practically get at all of Dead End’s valve in one stroke. A wet substance on his thigh momentarily disturbed him and he looked down to see he’d already pressurised his spike. It was black, definitely on the bigger side, and thick around the middle. Whatever. He worried his lips at Dead End’s clit, who was returning the favour with  _ delicious _ breathy moans.

“Motormaster, fingers — now.”

He ignored him and frustrated, Dead End put his other head at Motormaster’s cowling. “Motormaster.”

“Come on, you don’t wanna leak a guy off when he’s all over your junk.”

“Oh? What’ll happen?”

Motormaster just responded by clamping his mouth over Dead End’s clit area and sucking, and the cry Dead End made in response almost made the backtalk worth it.

Motormaster then put in two fingers — “Whoa, you’re real loose already,” — and cautioned using a third. Dead End took it like a champ. Motormaster was in awe at how quickly he was able to spread him out. He looked up at Dead End and smirked. “Oughta see the view from down here, to be honest.”

“You look… look like a dog about to have its day.” Dead End keened on that last note.

Motormaster cautioned a fourth, and if it hurt at all, Dead End didn’t indicate. In fact, he said, “You may just put it in now.”

“Seriously, don’t go bossin’ me around my own room.” But Motormaster thought that was a fine enough suggestion to consider. He took his spike in hand and watched it glide into Dead End’s beautiful entrance. He went a bit further with slow thrusting until he got to the first wall, where his fingers been able to watch, and just paused to admire the view of Dead End speared on him; the way Dead End’s pretty valve lining was barely visible.

“Frag. Are you okay?”

Dead End twitched. “F-fine. Once you’ve fully stretched me out, you can go harder.”

Motormaster nodded and undid Dead End’s spike housing. His spike was an adorable, tiny thing, and Motormaster grinned dopily when he saw it. He continued pressing through until he found that he couldn’t maybe half a foot off the end of his spike.

“Chamber. If you press up against it — ah!”

“I could keep going. I could just — thrust in there.”

“I don’t have that mod.”

“M-maybe later?” Because the thought of being in Dead End’s gestation chamber was extremely attractive, so he voiced this: “Ain’t you wanna feel me up against your wall? Filling you up completely?”

Dead End gasped out. 

Motormaster wiped drool from his mouth and drew back to begin fucking him thoroughly; good and hard. It was easier with him lying spread-eagled for Motormaster to get in deep with each stroke, but he sometimes ducked back down into missionary so he could kiss Dead End and whisper dirty nohings into his audials.

Dead End was moaning out about how Motormaster’s spike felt so good inside him, so  _ right,  _ so big, go harder! until the berth was positively shaking from the force of Motormaster’s thrusts. The headrest was banging into the wall, and Dead End was crying so loudly they’d probably see hear him on Cybertron. Motormaster plucked at Dead End’s waist coupling wars and he came then.

(When Dead End came, he twisted his head from side to side as each rack of his body hit him, which was cute)...

Motormaster held out for a few more thick thrusts until he too groaned out and dumped a hot swathe of fluid inside him. The air was filled with the noisy whirl of fans.

Lazily, absentmindedly, Dead End stroked the mound of his chassis above his valve. He looked extremely satisfied.

Motormaster wiped down some of the steam blistering off his face and fetched a towel and some coolant. When he came back, Dead End had stood up to the mirror in Motormaster’s room and was now inspecting himself in it with far more fastidiousness than he put into his actual duties.

“Got you somethin’,” Motormaster said, and moved to clean up the berth.

Without turning to look at him, Dead End said, “Motormaster, do you think I’m too boxy?”

“What? No. Is what Drag Strip’s said gettin’ to you?”

He once again moved his hands through the divots at his waist. “I’m simply not very shapely, am I? Not like Breakdown.

“Like Drag Strip, though! That punk’s got a boxy body too. He ain’t know what he’s talking about.”

He made a small noise of disapproval and Motormaster came up behind him. No, Dead End wasn’t too boxy at all — and what a thing to ask  _ Motormaster _ of all people, not that he couldn’t give Ratbat’s aft about his cowling anyhow. His little divot exaggerated his hips, for one thing, and Breakdown didn’t have those thighs that extended just slightly past his shoulder jointing. And he didn’t have that cute, fat aft either. Motormaster reached forward and copped a feel. He almost felt ready to go for round two: intercrural edition.

“That answer your question?”

“Motormaster.”

“You think I’m kidding you or somethin’? Dead End, you got the best aft on the whole base. And these,” he grabbed gentle fistfuls of Dead End’s hips. “Round you out. Not like me, I’m too blocky. And your thighs are real thick too. Drag Strip’s just messin’ with you.”

“Hmmm.” But Dead End seemed a little satisfied at least, so he turned around to recline on the bed and drink coolant.

“You gotta let me frag your thighs some time.”

“Very well.”

* * *

There was a frantic knocking at the door.

Motormaster had been raised from recharge (never one to sleep too lightly, can’t do that in a military unit) and he warily traipsed to the door to find Drag Strip with a growl on his face. 

“Can I sleep here?” He began gesticulated wildly. “Wildrider is driving me nuts and — it smells like interface in here. Did you guys bang?”

“What’s it to do?” Motormaster spat.

“Well, I don’t really care, ‘cept that this’ll be some fly 411 Rumble and Frenzy will love. Anyway, is having a dream about fighting bears or something and kicking me in the face.”

“I don’t care? Go to your own room?”

“But I wanna cuddle something. I’ll let you feel my engine?”

“Why on Earth would I want that.” Motormaster could’ve sworn he was gonna wear a dent into his forehead from the strength of his facepalming alone.

“It’s fun. Y’know.” Drag Strip made a jerking-off motion along with some squeaky noises at his midsection. “What, you not turned on by feeling up an engine? Whatever. Dead End won’t care, and you clearly have space for another mech if your fat aft can fit on that bed.”

“Drag Strip. Get the Pits outta here.”

He returned to the 


End file.
